


The Turn of the Wheel

by Fyre



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Light Bondage, Plot What Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-07
Updated: 2012-04-07
Packaged: 2017-11-03 05:56:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/378050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fyre/pseuds/Fyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rumpelstiltskin does not take well to unexpected and intimate touches. Belle, on the other hand...</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Turn of the Wheel

**Author's Note:**

> I blame this one on Rufeepeach and her phonesex fic. I was meant to be going to bed and this jumped on me.

The gold thread is soft.

That’s the first thing she notices when ties her down. It’s cold, metal, yes, but it’s soft as silk and he’s watching her with those gleaming eyes, as he twines it around her right wrist first, then the left, spreading her back against his wheel.

She doesn’t quite know why he’s doing it, but her hand on his thigh was the trigger. 

“You shouldn’t have done that, dearie,” he whispers, sibilant and dangerous.

“Touched you?” she asks, watching him warily. 

“Come back,” he whispers. “Why did you? You were free.”

“And you were alone,” she counters, tugging her wrists against the gold threads. 

His lips curl back. “I’m always alone,” he says, smoothing his hands down his breeches. 

The hand on the thigh. It was too much, she knows now. Too intimate. She should just have kissed him. She always was far too hands on. Everyone said so.

“No, you’re not,” she says. “I came back because I wanted to.” She tugs one wrist again. “Not to be tied up like some kind of sacrifice on an altar.”

His tongue darts out and he looks from one wrist to the other, as if regretting binding her. He shifts his weight on his feet, and she remembers all the stories the girls used to whisper at home, about men and their tight breeches when they saw things that pleased them.

Belle risks a glance to his breeches, then blushes.

The hand on the thigh certainly started something.

She squirms, trying to draw one wrist free, and when that fails, the other. Rumpelstiltskin makes a low sound in his throat and she catches her breath when she looks at him. He’s watching her, and he looks like he’s holding his breath, like she’s doing something wonderful.

Belle bites her lower lip. This isn’t the way true love goes in the stories. There’s no golden thread, no tying up, no tight breeches mentioned anywhere. Her heart is racing, and she wonders if this might be the part they never were told as children. 

She’s breathing deeply, and her chest rises and falls, and she pulls against the gold bonds. Her back arches, her breasts rising, and oh, she sees that he notices that. 

“Please,” she says, not quite sure what she’s asking. The wheel creaks and shifts with every movement of her body, and she tries to get up, but her arms are pinned too wide and she has no space, and her feet skitter on the floor, leaving her sprawled and dangling from the wheel by her wrists.

He is there in a heartbeat, his arm around her waist. To save her wrists, to save her from being hurt by the very bonds he put in place. Their faces are close to one another, and she can feel every trembling breath from his lips. 

“Please,” she whispers again, leaning into him as much as he bonds will allow. 

“Please what?” he asks hoarsely. “Release you?”

She looks at him, really looks, and moves one leg against his. She sees his eyes widen, and they’re almost solid black. “Please, touch me,” she whispers.

He catches her thigh, holding her still. “Why?” he asks, breathless and trembling, and all she can feel is his hand on her thigh, tangled in her petticoats. She groans softly, and his eyes widen that little bit further. His hand moves, hesitant, and she draws a breath.

“Because.” It’s the only answer she can think of, because his fingers have just slipped between petticoat and skin and his palm is cool and coarse and pressing to her inner thigh, and these really aren’t the stories she was told as a child. 

He’s still holding her, and they’re chest to chest, and she shivers. She wants him to believe her, to love her too, and even if that means while she’s tied to his spinning wheel, she wants him to feel how she feels about him. 

His thumb is moving beneath her skirt and she makes a soft sound, demanding, surprising herself. 

He looks lost, confused. “What do you want, dearie?”

It’s the simplest question in the world. “You.”

“Me.”

She breathes in, deep and slow, and feels her chest against his, feels his heart jump. “Yes,” she whispers and moves her thigh under his hand. “All of you.”

He buried his face in her throat as if he cannot bear to look at her, and she moans in soft protest, nuzzling at his hair. Then his lips are on her shoulder, on her throat, at her pulse point and he’s kissing his way the length of her neck as if she’s the only thing that matters. “This?” he whispers.

She can only gasp, as he leaves little bites and kisses all over her throat, and his hand is moving deeper beneath her skirts. This isn’t the way a lady is wooed, but if this isn’t, then she doesn’t ever want to be a lady again. He’s nibbling her earlobe, and his tongue teases the shell, following the curve, even as his other hand moves to her corset, tugging at her stays with all the deftness of a gold-spinner.

When the very tip of his tongue teases into her ear, she cries out in surprise and pleasure, and he laughs, deep and wicked, and sucks softly on her earlobe, making her blood throb in her most hidden places, the places his hand is teasing its way towards. 

She can barely breathe, can barely think, and when her corset falls open, she feels like she’s drowning in the air she is gulping in. His hand is rough against her chemise, and the blood rushing back to the liberated skin makes every inch of her thrum.

His mouth is moving again, and she whines in complaint as he abandons her ear to move downwards, leaving his mark on her collarbone over her chest, and when he captures one of her breasts with his lips, all complaints are forgotten. She gasps again, squirms, and he laughs that wicked little laugh, the very sound vibrating against her skin.

Beneath her skirt, fingers are teasing under her knickers, and her hips twitch towards him under their own volition. She wants to touch him, but the cords are holding her, binding her and the more she arches and squirms against them, the more she arches her body to his attentions. 

Her chemise is damp and clinging and she looks down with a whimper as he licks each breast in turn through the filmy fabric. He’s watching her like a cat, and he catches the fabric in his fist and pulls it apart likes it’s naught but paper.

Belle blushes from the floor up, and he gazes at her with only a little malevolence. “Bound and tormented by a monster,” he whispers bitterly. “Isn’t this fun?”

“Oh, Gods, yes,” she moans.

His hands stop moving and he’s staring at her. “What?”

“Please,” she whispers, pressing her thigh into his hand. “Don’t stop.”

“Dearie…”

She manages to gather wit enough to glare at him. “So help me, Rumpelstiltskin,” she hisses, “You are going to finish what you started.”

He stares at her, wide-eyed and blinking, as if he has lost a grip on what has happened, and she certainly isn’t able to do much to encourage him, except maybe wriggle her hips just enough and force his hand right between her thighs and close them on his fingers. She twitches her hips, just enough contact to draw a pleasant shiver from her. 

“Now.”

“Now…” he echoes, dazed, and lowers his head to her breasts again. It’s good, but it’s not enough, and she arches, the wheel pressing against her shoulders. There’ll be bruises and his mouth is moving down, and his hand is between her thighs, and his fingers are stroking as if she‘s fragile.

“Oh!” She lifts her hips, pushes herself more demandingly against his hand, and his fingers slip inside her and it feels like she screaming backwards, all the air catching in her throat, hardly escaping. She moves against his hand, pushing him deeper. She knows those parts of her, she knows what she likes, and she nods and gasps as he adds another finger and they’re deep, and his face is upturned to hers, and he’s looking at her like he’s never seen anything like her.

“You,” she whispers. “Please.”

She only regrets it for a moment, when he withdraws his hands to lift her skirts. His hands are trembling as he draws her knickers down, and her hips twitch towards him the instant the cool air of the hall washes over her. She wants to be touched, she needs it, and his eyes just aren’t doing enough.

“Please,” she whispers again.

She doesn’t expect him to kiss her there. She doesn’t expect his tongue to lick like that, his mouth to eat her alive. His fingers too. He’s licking, and his fingers are sunk in her and her hips keep jerking and she keeps on making small sounds, sharp sounds, not even sounds at all and he’s still licking and his tongue is long and knowing and finds that place, just, just, just there, and his fingers are deep, one, two, two, three, deeper, harder and the wheel is screaming and creaking, and she is too and the gold thread is cutting into her wrists and she can’t breathe, can’t think, can’t… can’t…

The wheel keeps trembling long after her cries stop echoing back, but he’s watching, waiting, still licking, slow now, lap, lap, lap, and she’s still warm, and throbbing, and his eyes are on her, on her face as he licks and laps, and he wants, and Gods, she wants, and she nods and he’s moving.

She’s known men. Not known, but seen, and he’s unlacing his breeches, quick and nimble, and all the while, he lick, lick, licks. She can’t stop to think, can barely even focus on him, the blood rushing too fast through her. She’s tingling all over and it’s building again, and his breeches are open, and his mouth is off her. He kisses her belly, her breasts, her collarbone, her throat, her jaw, but never, never, never her mouth as he kneels up and presses against her.

He’s hard and ready and wanting, and she knows that he wants as much as she wants. She strains against the wheel, presses against him, hips twitching, voice gone. So gone. Can’t breathe, can’t speak, and he’s rubbing against her, slow, teasing, again, again.

“Please!”

And he pins her to the wheel, body to hers, and he’s deep in her, and the wheel is screaming and she’s crying out and she wants to say his name, but can’t, can’t speak, and he’s holding her hips and driving deep and fast and hard, and the wheel rattles and his breath is hot on her face and his eyes are on her and she keeps watching him, watching his eyes, watching his face, watches him watching her, watches him drink in her breath, swallow ever gasp she gives, never touching her lips, not tasting, breathing her in and gasping with her and she’s dizzy and breathless and he’s still moving and it’s like the blood is boiling in her and he slams hard, just there, hard, again, again, again…

She screams, just once, and it rings, like a bell, like a Belle, and she's panting and gasping and limp against the wheel and he moves more slowly, deep, slow, steady, and finally, finally, finally stops.

A moment, perfect, still, and she never wants to move or breathe again.

He likes to watch the wheel.

She thinks she knows why.


End file.
